


Your Tears Sting, Friend

by alpha_exodus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Death, Depression, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Post-Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-22 11:42:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22948942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alpha_exodus/pseuds/alpha_exodus
Summary: Draco’s always wanted Potter. It’s only on death’s doorstep that he’s allowed to have him.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 46
Kudos: 263





	Your Tears Sting, Friend

**Author's Note:**

> hi yes this fic is major character death (draco) so please be aware before you read <3 the first line of this rudely decided to write itself in my head many weeks ago and then the rest of it sort of tumbled out afterwards - despite the angst content i hope you enjoy~
> 
> mattie (feelsforbreakfast/drarrytrash) is as always lovely and wonderful for helping me refine this and give it the emotions it needed!! if you would like to read the spiritual predecessor to this fic then you should read their "yours, draco" which is glorious and just as if not more painful.
> 
> title from "all i wanted" by daughter!

Seven days from now, Draco Malfoy will be dead.

Or that’s what was declared at the trial—so his mother said. He’s not sure. He can’t remember himself; he thinks he must’ve blacked out at those words, from terror or exhaustion or desperation to escape his own skin.

It’s a miracle Mother was spared. For that at least, he’s grateful.

Draco is not so lucky. He has the mark of a genocidal murderer on his arm, inky black, a disgraceful smear on his record for the rest of his short life.

He has seven days to ruminate over his own mortality, to grieve the life he could’ve had, the choices he could’ve made—better ones, ones that might not have led him fucking _here_.

Not that it matters, he thinks, curled up in an armchair and staring listlessly out his bedroom window at the Manor. He can’t change his mind now, and his fate has been irrevocably sealed.

There’s a knock on his door, but Draco doesn’t look up. He knows it’s Mother. She’s been coming to sit with him for a bit each day since he was sentenced, and he lets her—anything to make the heartbreak easier on her, considering she’s about to lose both her husband and her child.

The fact that it will hurt Mother is the one thing about Draco’s sentencing that he really, truly regrets. The rest of it he’s mostly accepted, but Mother does not deserve to hurt like this.

He almost wonders if it would be easier on her if she were sentenced too. Not that he wants Mother dead, but it would save her the pain of losing the only family she still has, the pain that hurts Draco even more than he hurts for himself.

For himself—at the thought of his own death—he has grown numb.

“Draco,” she says, her voice soft and melodic as always. He waits for her to Summon a chair, to sit next to him and stroke his hair and talk about when he was a boy, when they were all somehow happy.

He’s not expecting her to clear her throat and say, “You have a visitor.”

Dazed, he looks up, brow furrowing. Who would _want_ to visit him? Pansy maybe, but she’s in France, and she’s already told him she doesn’t know if she can bear to see him again. He understands. Pureblooded children are taught from a young age that it’s disdainful to show too much emotion, and he knows that all that would come of her visit would be too many tears from both of them.

Greg is still in mourning over Vince, and Draco refuses to disturb that for anything.

That leaves very few people in this world that he might expect to see hovering in his doorframe, and none of them are Harry fucking Potter.

But, of course, it _is_ Potter. Real and in the flesh.

Draco sits up and stares at him, his mouth going dry, and for a moment he is angry, so _angry_ —why can’t Potter just leave him the fuck alone? If he didn’t have a Ministry-commanded block on his magic he’d fucking hex him, but he can’t even cast as much as a _Lumos_ , so all he can do is wait until Mother leaves and ask, “What do _you_ want?”

Potter’s expression is downcast, and Merlin, that’s the last thing Draco needs—fucking pity. But Potter comes and Summons a chair and sits next to him without a word, taking Mother’s place and looking out the same window Draco’s been staring out of for what feels like forever.

Draco is suddenly overly aware of his own body, of how unkempt he is. He hasn’t bothered to bathe for a couple of days, and he’s wearing a pair of pajamas that feel a size too small, tight across his shoulders and too high at the ankles. He doesn’t even want to consider the state of his hair.

But Potter doesn’t seem to notice.

In fact, Potter isn’t looking at him at all.

And, well, Potter is here. So Draco may as well look at _him_ , properly, like he hasn’t been able to do in ages, since—

Since Potter was back at Hogwarts, and Draco wanted him more than he’s ever wanted anything.

The memories come on too strong, all at once, and a damned sob threatens to rise in his throat. He clenches his hands into fists, staring angrily down at the floor. Potter is the last thing he wants to be thinking about when his death is so near he could count the hours, but now he _has_ to think of him because Potter’s right fucking in front of him.

He has to think of how he hadn’t told anyone, not a soul, how much he wanted Potter not to hate him in sixth year. How he wanted Potter to turn to him and smile for once, to pull Draco aside and let Draco spill his soul to him, to maybe even sordidly kiss him, hidden in the dark behind a tapestry in the corridor.

How much Draco wished, with the Mark fresh on his arm, that Potter could save him along with everyone else.

But Potter is only human. Even his words at the trials couldn’t overthrow the ugly label of ‘Death Eater’ on Draco’s forehead.

He focuses on slowing his breathing. When he eventually calms down enough to look up at Potter again, Potter is finally looking back at him, gaze steady in a way Draco wishes he could mirror. But there are cracks in Potter’s image—he looks bloody tired, bags under his eyes, glasses crooked in a way he’s not bothering to fix. Draco has the foolish urge to reach over and straighten them. He could if he wanted. They’re sitting close enough.

Shame rises in his throat then, and he wants to laugh. He and Potter will never be close enough for Draco’s tastes—Potter is golden, and Draco can never touch him.

Potter sighs and looks away. “I didn’t want this to happen,” he speaks finally, words puncturing the silence of the room.

Of fucking course. He’s come to save face, to act as if he cares if Draco is gone. Draco sneers at him. “Neither did I, but that doesn’t fucking matter, does it?”

Potter glares, and now Draco _does_ laugh, hotly, wrapping his arms around himself. Draco has barely a week to live, and they’re still quarrelling like they’ve never grown up.

He supposes they’re not that old in the grand scheme of things. Adulthood isn’t until eighteen in the Muggle world, but Draco won’t live long enough to see it—his birthday is in less than a month.

Grief briefly threatens to bury him, grief for the years of life he is missing, for the years that were ruined by the war, snatched away from him by Voldemort’s cold, half-dead hands. But he has hours left to be bitter about it. He may as well keep talking to Potter right now, seeing as he’s got nothing better to do.

It occurs to him that he’s waited years for this moment, to be sitting together with Potter almost like equals, but now that it’s happening, he doesn’t really know what to say. There’s too many years’ worth of fucked up things between them, and he’s starting to think that most of them were his own fault.

He opens his mouth, brow furrowing as he realizes what’s about to fall from his lips. “Sorry,” he says quietly, before he can stop it.

Potter looks up at him, eyes going wide. “What?”

“I said I’m sorry,” Draco mutters stubbornly. Then he sighs. He hates this almost more than he hates himself. “For...” he waves his hand—“For giving you hell, okay? For all the shit I did, and—just everything.”

Potter cards a hand through his hair. Then he does something unexpected—he smiles at Draco. It’s a sad smile, one where it looks like he could either laugh or cry, and it makes Draco’s heart flip funnily in his chest.

Has Potter ever smiled at him before? Draco can’t remember. He feels suddenly awkward, and he tightens his mouth, looking back out the window. “It’s not a big deal,” he mumbles.

“I forgive you,” Potter says quietly, and Draco wants to cry.

“Okay,” he says, acting like it doesn’t mean the world to him. He wishes it didn’t. He also wishes he didn’t have a crush on Potter larger than the Hogwarts grounds, but then again, when has Draco ever gotten anything that he truly wished for?

They sit there in silence for a long time, but it’s a silence that’s startlingly comfortable for having been enemies for half their lives. Their breathing has gone in sync, and again, Draco thinks of touching him, of reaching over and resting his hand on Potter’s knee, of fisting a hand in Potter’s t-shirt and kissing him.

But he doesn’t.

When Potter leaves, standing and stretching with a crack of his back, he looks at Draco and says, “I’ll come again tomorrow?”

“Whatever, Potter,” Draco says, and watches him leave, his chest burning. He has no idea why Potter even wants to come back. It’ll only serve to torture him, Potter real and in front of him, close enough to touch but still not close enough.

Of course Potter would never give him what he _actually_ wants. He’s always been just out of reach, sparkling in the distance, like the Snitch Draco was never allowed to catch.

He hates him.

He hates his stupid glasses and rumpled hair and the way he smells of Quidditch and the smoky scent of magic.

Most of all, he hates Potter for reminding Draco of just how much he wants him, for awakening again the yearning that’s lived for years between his ribs.

Potter makes him feel too fucking aware of the slow, torrid beating of his own heart—the beating that, in seven days, will stop.

xXx

“Are you all right, darling?” Mother asks later, hands in his hair.

Of course he is. It’s just Potter. Right?

No. It’s never been ‘just Potter.’ Not for Draco.

He turns then and leans on Mother’s shoulder and cries and cries. It’s as if he is a child again, crouched in the entryway of the Manor, having fallen and skinned his knee.

xXx

The next day, he showers. He tries to tell himself that it’s because he sorely needed to, but as he stands in front of the slowly defogging mirror, fussing over his hair and wearing his nicest jumper, he has to concede that it’s because of Potter.

Potter’s always been his reason for everything, hasn’t he?

Draco catches sight of the Mark on his arm then and thinks, no. No he hasn’t.

He sits by the window after, skin tingling with anticipation, and waits.

And waits.

After a long time of waiting, the horrid thought appears in his mind that Potter’s chickened out. That he’s not coming after all.

The sun sets.

Well, Draco thinks, stretching bitterly. At least Potter’s saved him several hours of dreading his own death.

xXx

He’s lying curled up on his bed in the dark when he hears a cough from the doorway. “Oh,” Draco says quietly, pushing himself so he’s sitting up. “You came.”

Potter nods. “Sorry, I had—” he starts, then waves his hand in a vague gesture, as if Draco will instinctively understand what he means.

Strangely enough, he does. “Chosen One things,” he assumes.

Potter wrinkles his nose and nods.

After a bit of an awkward pause, Draco crosses his legs and says, “You can sit down, you know.”

So Potter comes and sits on the very edge of his bed, perched in a way that looks nervous, almost uncomfortable. He’s poised to flee, Draco thinks.

Draco doesn’t blame him. He’d flee too, if he could.

“Could you light one of the torches?” he asks Potter eventually, and for a moment Potter looks confused.

Then Potter’s eyes widen. “Oh!” he says. “Of course, you need your wand, don’t you? I brought it back for you.” He reaches into his pocket, fumbling around, and no, no—

Potter hands him his wand.

Draco stares dejectedly at the slim piece of wood, his companion for seven years, and thinks of when he was young—when he hadn’t yet used this wand to hurt anyone.

He nearly throws the damn thing across the room.

Instead, working hard not to tremble, he sets it on his nightstand.

“I can’t do magic,” he admits, voice barely louder than a whisper. “Part of my sentence.”

“Oh,” Potter says, mouth dropping open a bit. “I’m—I’m sorry.”

Draco shrugs. “I thought you would’ve known, being at my trial.”

“I...” Potter looks rueful. “I didn’t stay.”

“Oh,” Draco says, suddenly feeling stung. He hadn’t noticed Potter leave.

“Not—I mean, I did see your sentencing, or at least the beginning,” Potter backtracks quickly. “It’s just. I had to leave when they said that you—” He shakes his head, his voice growing hard. “I got too angry.”

Potter, angry? On _his_ behalf? Draco’s breath catches at the incredulity of the thought. “Well, you didn’t miss much,” he tells Potter. “Not that I would know. I think I passed out.”

“Oh.” Potter eyes him for a moment, expression contemplative.

Then he reaches over and puts a hand on Draco’s shoulder, warm through his jumper, and Draco’s heart leaps into his throat.

He waits for Potter to move away. But Potter doesn’t, and so Draco has to turn and look at him, pulse in overdrive.

Potter looks sad.

Of _course_. Draco squeezes his eyes shut. “Don’t fucking pity me.”

“I’m not,” Potter says, jerking his hand away, and the loss hurts. “It’s not pity. I’m just... sad.”

“I don’t believe you,” Draco says, glaring at the floor. “Why would you be sad over me?”

Potter is silent.

Part of Draco wants to laugh, to say, ‘Ha! I was right.’

The other part is devastated.

When Potter finally opens his mouth to speak, it’s not what Draco thought it would be. “Did you know,” Potter says, picking at the bedspread—“Did you know you were the first boy I met from Hogwarts?”

Draco remembers that meeting, standing there at Madame Malkin’s. He remembers thinking back on it with shame afterwards, once he knew it was Potter, wondering if he could’ve said or done something different—something that would’ve made Potter like him more. “I didn’t know,” he admits, glancing back at Potter.

Potter leans back on his hands. “And I followed you around, for nearly all of Sixth year. Did you know that?”

Draco huffs a dry laugh. “That, I did. It was bloody annoying.”

Potter’s quiet for a moment. “I had a magic map,” he says eventually. “I could see where you’d gone.”

Draco stares at him, open-mouthed. “That’s—that’s so _unfair!_ ”

Potter laughs then. “It is a bit, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Draco says hotly. “Why are you telling me all this?”

Potter’s smile falls away.

Ah. Of course. “Because I’m going to die,” Draco says, and watches Potter nod. Fuck. He sighs. “I guess I should thank you.”

“For what?” Potter asks.

“For... occupying me,” Draco says, tracing the pattern of the bedspread with his fingers. “It helps to not have to—think of it.”

“Oh,” Potter says. “I... I get it.” He tilts his head. “Er. If you want a distraction, I suppose I could keep telling you things? Stories, I mean. I have loads.”

Draco eyes him suspiciously. “You _do_ pity me.”

“No, I...” Potter rubs at his neck and sighs. “Well, I suppose I do,” he admits. “Just a bit. But that’s not why I’m here.”

‘Why _are_ you here?’ Draco wants to ask. But he’s afraid to hear the answer.

So instead he gestures at Potter to go on, and thankfully Potter does. He finally relaxes, settling back on his hands, telling Draco tales of the Triwizard Tournament and of life on the run, tales of Dumbledore’s Army and all his time spent with Granger and Weasley.

All things Draco was only allowed to see from the outside.

He watches Potter’s expression change with every story, watches joy and sorrow and fear flit through his eyes, watches him slowly become more comfortable the longer he speaks. Draco wonders if Potter might even be enjoying this. He knows he would. It’s freeing, to be able to speak unfettered, and anyway, Draco is going to die. Who better to keep Potter’s secrets?

He closes his eyes and imagines Potter’s words, imagines Potter fighting dragons and dark wizards and the demons in his own mind, all the way until he’s nearly asleep.

And then he does fall asleep, and Potter slips out the door.

xXx

Draco wakes up terrified and tense—Potter is gone, and for a moment he’s seized with terror at the idea that he might never come back, that Draco is just as alone as he is before Potter stepped foot into this room.

Draco curses, annoyed at himself.

He shouldn’t have fallen asleep.

He mopes for half the day, then regrets it later when Mother comes and sits beside him and asks him what’s wrong. He snaps at her, something about how he’s going to _die_ in a few days, thank you very much, and then immediately he regrets the lie as a shadow of misery flashes over her face.

Worst of all, lying didn’t even work. It’s not long before she remarks, “Harry Potter has been here a lot recently, hasn’t he?”

Draco swallows back a lump in his throat. “Yeah, I suppose.”

Mother looks at him, sees straight through him, and for a moment he feels like a mere child again. Then, surprisingly, she smiles. “I’m happy for you,” she says then. “You did always want to be friends with him.”

Draco nearly chokes. He grits his teeth against the hurt in his lungs, feeling suddenly miserable—because she _knows_ , even though he’s never said those words aloud. He _has_ wanted that, for so long it’s painful, and yesterday, for a brief moment, he thought it might even be possible.

But Potter has escaped Draco’s grasp yet again, has left him hanging unrequited, another bid for friendship scorned.

“Life is so unfair,” he complains, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain.

He hears Mother take a shaky breath. “I know, darling,” she says, hugging him. “I know.”

xXx

Potter does actually appear, later that night.

Draco is relieved, so relieved that he smiles at him, and Potter looks very taken aback—ah. Fuck. It’s out of character for him, isn’t it? Quickly, Draco rearranges his expression, but Potter is already smiling back, coming to sit next to him on the bed, and all at once it feels like something has changed.

“Hullo,” Potter says.

Draco swallows. “You’re here again.”

“Yes,” Potter says, a spark of something in his eyes, and Draco’s longing for him roars to life stronger than it’s ever been, scrabbling at his chest until he’s seconds away from doing something awful like touching him.

He has half a mind to tell Potter to go away, but he doesn’t have enough time left to make decisions that he’ll regret. He’d most definitely regret it if Potter left right now.

So he turns to face Potter on the bed, crossing his legs, feeling nervous. “I’m going to tell you about my life now,” he states. It’s Potter’s turn to listen.

Potter doesn’t seem at all surprised. Instead his mouth quirks into a smile, and he says, “All right.”

He makes it seem like this will be so easy, even though Draco’s already wondering if this isn’t a good idea, and anyway Potter shouldn’t _care_ about Draco’s life. But Draco has already opened his mouth, has already committed to it. He has no choice but to bare his soul.

He starts with the stories he can bear to tell, ones of his youth, of running through the fields of Wiltshire with Pansy, of growing up at the Manor playing with (and getting bitten by) the peacocks. He tells him of learning to fly, of getting his Hogwarts letter, of Mother sneaking him sweets even though Father discouraged it, of Mother—

_Mother_.

He breaks off mid-sentence and bursts into tears. Fuck, _fuck_ —

Instantly, Potter is there, wrapping his arms around him and holding him close. Draco can only hold on, clutching at his shoulders as he sobs. “I’m sorry,” Potter is saying, “I’m sorry.”

“Potter,” Draco says, wiping at his own face, squeezing his eyes shut. “Please don’t let her be alone,” he chokes out, even though this is a ridiculous thing to ask.

Potter only holds him tighter. “I won’t,” he says, and even though Draco knows it has to be an empty promise, he feels better all the same.

He cries until he can’t anymore, feeling hollow, curled against Potter’s chest. “I hate this,” he mumbles, pressing his face into Potter’s jumper, breathing in the scent of warmth and laundry detergent.

Potter rubs his back then, and he shivers. He should pull away. But he doesn’t want to. He wishes he could stay here forever—Potter is warm, and Draco has wanted to touch him for longer than he can remember.

But Potter’s already saved him once, sheltering him from the heat of the Fiendfyre. He can’t burden Potter again.

So he pulls away, sitting up, and Potter’s arms fall to his sides. He looks almost like he wants to say something, but then he seems to think better of it.

He looks tired.

It must be tiring, Draco thinks, to carry the weight of everyone’s sadness on his shoulders. Including Draco’s own.

Fuck.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice hoarse. “I won’t do that again.”

“Malfoy,” Potter says, his eyebrows knitting together. “I didn’t _mind_.”

Draco doesn’t believe him.

But he nods anyway.

For a moment Potter looks hesitant. Then he reaches out and starts to rub Draco’s back again, and Draco has to hide his shock, even as he can’t resist leaning into it.

At this rate, Potter’s kindness will kill him before his executioners do.

Slowly he resumes speaking. He tells Potter of things that burn his lungs as they leave his throat, of the Vanishing Cabinet and watching Dumbledore die, of the summer when Voldemort invaded his house and he felt like he was perpetually two seconds away from screaming.

He tells him of the nights after he took the Mark, when he laid on his pillow and sobbed and wished he could take it back, of having so much anger in him that it was almost easy to _Crucio_ the other students when he had to, of hating himself and wanting to die after every time he did it—and, more perversely, of reaching the end of the war and finally wanting to _live_.

He doesn’t have to tell Potter about the trial, about being told he no longer deserved this life. Potter knows. He was there.

Through it all, Potter stays, even as the night grows long and his hand stills on Draco’s back. This time, when he finally leaves, he takes Draco’s secrets with him—and Draco feels a little more at peace, knowing that Potter has these parts of him safe in his hands.

xXx

Four days.

Draco awakens to birds chirping outside his window, and for a moment he can almost pretend this is a normal early summer day, that he’ll go downstairs and find his father reading the paper and his mother tending to the garden.

But Father has locked himself in his study since the sentencing, and the garden is long overgrown, ever since Voldemort poisoned the Manor with his presence.

He ventures downstairs anyway, for the first time in days. Mother is sitting at the dining table, a cup of tea untouched in front of her. Draco has a feeling it’s gone cold.

‘ _Pretend everything is normal_ ,’ he tells himself.

So he sits down at the table, and Mother smiles at him, somehow no sadness to be found. She’s always been better at hiding her emotions than he has.

“Mother,” he says, keeping his tone light. “Would you mind if we went out to work in the garden?”

It’s hard work, without magic. Manual labor is never something he’s been fond of. But hours later, despite the sweat running down his back and the growing soreness of exertion, it’s worth it to see his Mother’s smile at the fragile plants they’ve revealed, peeled out from beneath a year of neglect.

He feels almost content with the day, all the way up until he receives Potter’s owl that evening.

_I can’t come today_ , it reads. _Something came up, I’m sorry. But I’ll be there tomorrow. –H_

‘Do you promise?’ Draco thinks. But the parchment cannot answer. He should bin it, but against his better judgement he puts it in his pocket instead.

He goes to bed that night lonely, curled in on himself, missing Potter and hating himself for it.

xXx

He dreams that Potter is there, sitting next to where he lies on the bed, the light of the sunrise making his face glow and his eyes impossibly green. Draco lets himself smile at Potter, and Potter smiles back, summoning a warm, fragile happiness in Draco’s chest.

The dream blurs the edges of his senses, but he manages to reach over and tug at Potter’s arm anyway. Potter looks confused for a second, but then he caves, lying next to Draco and slinging an arm around him like it’s nothing.

Thank Salazar for small mercies.

He curls into Potter, just breathing him in, and it’s lovely. Potter is so warm, and he smells just right, of broomsticks and musk and magic—

It feels real.

Almost _too_ real.

It’s at that point that he begins to realize with faint horror that he’s not, in fact, dreaming.

Fuck.

He goes stiff with violent embarrassment and jerks away. “I... shit,” he mutters, frantically blinking awake, his neck burning with shame.

Potter is eyeing him with something like amusement, still far too close on Draco’s pillow. “Er, good morning to you, too.”

Draco wishes he could forget this ever happened. “I didn’t... I wasn’t...” he stammers, trying to think of a way to explain himself.

“It’s okay,” Potter says, at the same time that Draco blurts, “I thought it was a dream.”

Draco blinks. “Oh,” he says, caught firmly off guard.

Potter smiles at him then, that unreadable spark back in his eyes. “Huh. Is that what you dream about?”

“ _No_ ,” Draco splutters, flushing red hot. “I don’t—you—you’re such a _git_ —”

“A git, am I?” Potter asks.

“ _Yes_.”

Potter’s eyes grow thoughtful. “Then should I leave?”

Draco’s throat clenches. “No,” he admits, voice raw. He can’t look at Potter.

“Okay,” Potter says. “I’ll stay.”

Relief washes over Draco, and for a moment he even lets Potter see it, staring at Potter with so much longing he thinks he could burst with it. Then he shuts his eyes. “You’re still a wanker.”

“Yeah, probably,” Potter says, nudging his arm, making Draco look at him. “But so are you.”

Draco’s voice is quiet when he says, “I know.”

They’re silent for a moment, a silence that scares him as Potter stares deep into his soul. Then Potter does the unthinkable—he reaches over and pulls Draco close again.

“Potter,” Draco croaks in not-quite-protest, feeling like this _must_ be a dream even though it isn’t.

“Mind if I sleep a little?” Potter asks, his voice so, so close. “I was out late. I’m a bit tired.”

“I suppose it’s all right,” Draco mumbles, still feeling like he’s in shock. Then Potter slides his arm around him, palm flat on the small of Draco’s back, and he can’t help himself—he shivers and curls closer, pressing his face to Potter’s chest.

Maybe Potter’s only doing this because Draco so clearly wants it. Maybe Potter’s only doing this because Draco is going to die. But even if it’s only pity, Draco can’t resist him—Potter is _here_ , willingly holding him even though Draco isn’t crying anymore, and Draco doesn’t have the strength to tell him to stop.

Slowly, he allows himself to relax—to take advantage of Harry Potter, warm in his bed.

They both sleep.

When he wakes again, Potter’s sitting up against the headboard, staring listlessly across the room.

“What’s wrong?” Draco asks, blearily sitting up next to him.

“It’s nothing,” Potter says, but his words ring false.

“It’s not nothing.”

“All right, fine,” Potter says. “It isn’t nothing. But I’m not going to tell you, so leave it be.”

“Why not?” Draco asks, and then he almost asks, ‘ _Don’t you trust me?_ ’

Except Potter has no reason to trust him, and it would wound Draco more than he wants to admit to hear him say that aloud.

“Because,” Potter says firmly.

Draco puzzles it over. He supposes it could be any number of things, considering all the awful circumstances Potter’s had to go through, but as he takes in Potter’s frown and reserved posture, it slowly occurs to him—“You won’t tell me because it has to do with me, doesn’t it?”

Potter doesn’t answer, staring straight ahead.

“You’re trying...” Draco swallows, stomach churning with the realization. “You’re trying to get my sentence overturned.”

For a long moment, Potter stays silent.

Then it seems as if all the fight goes out of him, and his shoulders hunch. “Yeah,” he admits.

Potter. Oh, Potter. “It’s not working, is it?” Draco asks quietly.

Potter’s eyes are bleak as he shakes his head, confirming Draco’s worst fears. “No,” he says. “It’s not.” He scrubs a hand through his hair. “I’m trying everything,” he continues. “Every possible string I could pull. But the Ministry’s a fucking mess right now, and everyone is so anti-dark magic... Even when I think I’m making progress, they keep telling me that the best possible outcome would be life in Azkaban. Which is better than nothing, but still no one is—”

“Potter.”

“— _listening_ to me, and—”

“ _Potter_.”

“—I have a few more people I could—”

“Potter, _stop_ ,” Draco says, grabbing his arm. His voice is smaller then, when he says, “I don’t... I don’t want to go to Azkaban.”

Potter frowns. “It would buy us time, though, y’know? We’d get you out eventually, and—”

“ _No_ ,” Draco states firmly. He’s heard enough of Azkaban from father; witnessed the haunted look it gave him, the way he’d been almost mad with grief.

More than anything, Draco doesn’t want to be trapped in that place with all the awful memories of things he’s said, things he’s done. All the times he’s fucked up. He thinks it might kill him, a slow, painful death, under assault of his very own life.

“All I’ve ever wanted is to be happy,” he says then, his voice rough. “I couldn’t stand being in Azkaban. Not for one day.”

“But it would give us _time_ —”

“You’re not _listening_ ,” Draco hisses. “If it comes to death or Azkaban, I’d rather be _dead_.”

Potter stares at him, shocked. “How can you say that? It’s your _life!_ ”

“Yes, it is my life,” Draco bites out. “ _Mine_. You can’t save everyone, Potter!”

Potter looks crushed, and for a moment, all Draco can feel is guilt as Potter curls in on himself. “Don’t you think I know that?” Potter asks, looking at him desperately. “But I have to _try_.”

“You _have_ tried,” Draco says, and he’s being honest—Potter’s done more for him than anyone on this damned planet.

Without Potter, he’d already be dead.

“But...” Potter says, looking lost.

Draco shakes his head. “I get it, Potter. I get it. But... you can’t save me. Not this time.”

Potter is quiet, and that somehow only accentuates the tiredness in his posture, the exhaustion in the droop of his eyes.

Draco feels suddenly selfish. He’s made this all about him again, when Potter’s wearing himself to the bone trying to help. “Anyway,” he says, “don’t you deserve a fucking rest for once?”

Potter looks taken aback. “I’m fine, I—”

“No, you’re _not_ ,” Draco cuts him off, looking him up and down. “Look at you. You can barely stay awake. You’ve spent half your life fighting, you just—” he throws his hands up in the air—“You just _literally_ saved the fucking world, and now you’re still trying—you’re _still_ trying, for _me_ , and...” He takes a shaky breath—“And I’m not worth it.”

Potter looks at him then with such emotion that Draco nearly has to look away. “You are,” he says, then repeats it, “You _are_.”

“No,” Draco says, his voice small, thinking of watching a Professor die on his dining table, thinking of sneering at Muggleborns and _Crucio_ ing student after student—“No. I’m not.”

“ _Draco_ ,” Potter says, voice wavering, making Draco’s heart pulse unsteadily in his chest—his name. The only time Potter’s ever said it.

Then Potter crumples, his shoulders shaking, and this time Draco’s the one holding him while he cries in his arms.

“Why does it have to _be_ this way?” Potter gasps out, and Draco’s own lip trembles. “It’s so _unfair_.”

“I know,” Draco says, voice hoarse. “I know.”

xXx

Potter stays with him the entire day, sitting in Draco’s room as if it’s the only place he wants to be. The elves occasionally bring food up for them to eat, but otherwise they go unbothered, and they talk in hushed voices about everything and nothing, passing the time by as Death lies in wait for Draco.

In a way, he thinks, it’s as if they’re mourning his passing before it even happens.

Another thought plagues him now too—that this is hurting Potter. It must be. He doesn’t quite have words for what they’re doing together, shared stories and stolen glances and bitten lips, but he can feel himself longing more for Potter’s touch with every minute they spend together, and he’s slowly growing convinced that it can’t be one-sided.

Potter doesn’t _have_ to be here. He could leave anytime he wanted, and the fact that he’s stayed has to mean that at least some part of him wants this too.

However, this is an undeniable fact: Draco is going to die.

That means that these moments are mere treachery, setting Potter up for even more pain—and Draco is to blame, for grasping at a friendship that he’s never deserved.

The thought eats away at him through the day, prickling at his neck, taunting him, and by the time night falls he’s grown sullen and quiet with the weight of it all. Potter notices. Of course he does. Potter tries to keep their conversation going, continues to tell his stories, but soon even he lapses into tense silence.

‘It will hurt less if you do it fast,’ Mother told him once, before spelling out a thorn from his thumb so she could heal it.

And so too does Potter deserve to heal, to stop being dragged down by the wishes of the dead. Not that Draco is dead yet. But he may as well be.

He braces himself and does something he wishes he didn’t have to do.

“Tomorrow,” he addresses Potter out of the blue, trying to make his voice sharp—“Tomorrow you shouldn’t come back.”

Potter looks up, surprised, his eyebrows knitting together. “Why not?”

“Because,” Draco says, and is this what self-sacrifice feels like? This awful pain in his chest? “I don’t want you to.”

“I... oh,” Potter says, and that small sound could be the end of him. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Draco says, and for once he doesn’t feel guilty for being a good liar. He can’t look at him. He can’t. “I’d like to be alone.”

“But...” Potter says, sounding shaky.

“Don’t. Come.” Draco says harshly then. He needs to be convincing, or else Potter will... Potter will...

He doesn’t want Potter to be there, hurting, when it ends.

It’s hard enough seeing Mother fall apart.

He can’t bear doing that to Potter too.

“I... okay,” Potter says finally, voice hollow as he hangs his head. “If that’s what you want.”

“You should leave now,” Draco says, because at any moment he might cry again and then this whole façade will be ruined.

“Okay,” Potter says again, standing, taking a few steps away. “If you change your mind...”

Draco won’t.

“This was nice, Potter,” he says then, genuinely. “But I need to be alone.”

Potter nods once. He doesn’t speak again as he leaves the room, every step a crack in Draco’s heart, and Draco has the slightest suspicion it’s because he’s already crying.

But he can’t judge him for it.

Draco is too.

xXx

Two days.

He sleeps fitfully, the little rest he can get punctuated by nightmares, ones where people are screaming in the distance. He is lying in his bedroom, and screams come from all throughout the house, unending, just as they were when Voldemort was here. Death Eaters stalk by his door, growing closer with every pass, until they are in his room in front of him and Draco can see that it is his own face on their bodies, laughing with bloodstained hands.

He turns around. He is the one screaming.

He jerks awake, breathing fast and covered in sweat, and despite feeling thoroughly drained he’s grateful for the dawn.

He makes himself get up, and then he eats and showers and steadfastly manages to avoid thinking of Potter for nearly half the day. But as evening falls, the loneliness begins to prickle at his back, and soon enough the prickling turns into a stab.

He will never see Potter again.

And the painful addendum: it’s better this way.

“Darling...” Mother says at dinner, the two of them alone at the table.

He immediately grows wary. She has that look in her eyes, the one that means she knows something is wrong. “Have you spoken to Father yet?” Draco asks, attempting to divert the conversation before she can pry.

She gives him a look, but still, she nods. “Briefly,” she says, setting her fork down with a sigh, and he nearly regrets bringing it up. “He’s busy drowning in his own misery, and I suspect that nothing either of us can do will change that.”

Draco has spent his whole life reading between his Mother’s somber words. ‘He still thinks he was in the right,’ she is saying. ‘He is blind to everything that would say otherwise, including us.’

Their marriage has been fragile ever since Draco took the Mark, much like his own relationship with Father. He can’t bring himself to feel guilty for that, though. That part is Father’s own fault, for saying he had their family always in mind, when instead it was only power that he cared about.

They finish dinner and retire to the sitting room. Draco does his best to keep his mind blank, to not think of Potter, to not think of death. He notices eventually that Mother is writing a letter, and when he tries to snoop, she hides it with her arm.

“What is that?” he asks, trying again to look, but she flips the parchment over.

“Oh, nothing,” she says airily.

“Mother,” he pesters, frowning.

She heaves a sigh. She’s too tired to play these games with him, he thinks. “It’s a letter to Andromeda.”

Draco’s eyebrows raise—she hasn’t spoken to Aunt Andromeda in years, as far as he knows. “I didn’t know you were in contact with her.”

“I wasn’t,” Mother says. “Mr. Potter passed along a letter from her yesterday morning.”

Oh.

Draco’s breath hitches, and suddenly he realizes why Mother was hiding the letter. He’s sure she’s noticed that Potter isn’t here today, noticed Draco’s corresponding surliness. “I’m glad for you,” he says honestly.

“She’s taking in her grandson—Theodore, his name is. They’re calling him Teddy. I wish—” She cuts herself off, but he can hear the unspoken words—‘I wish you could be there to meet him.’

“Visit a lot for me,” he says instead, and she gives him a weak smile.

This is the gift Potter has given him, he thinks, heavy with melancholy as he bids Mother an early goodnight and climbs the stairs to his bedroom. He had asked for Mother not to be alone, and even in this, Potter has saved him.

But no matter how hard Potter tries, he cannot save Draco from himself.

Draco is miserable as he climbs into bed, miserable because he misses Potter, because he is tired of fighting him, because he is anxious and terrified of his own death.

Miserable because there was a small, hopeful part of him that thought maybe Potter would ignore Draco’s request—that maybe he’d come back anyway.

He brushes away fleeting thoughts of caving and sending Potter an owl. There’s no time left, and anyway, his pride won’t let him. All he can do is convince himself that he’s doing the right thing, no matter how badly he longs to be in Potter’s arms.

The night ticks on, and the hopeful part of Draco is slowly crushed.

Potter doesn’t come, and Draco is left all alone.

xXx

Draco sleeps well that night, surprisingly enough. He supposes it’s because he’s exhausted or depressed or some combination of the two. Either way, it won’t matter soon enough.

His execution is set for tomorrow, at nine in the morning.

Mother coddles him today, setting out his favorite foods for breakfast, bangers and scones and poached eggs, speaking carefully of things that don’t matter in an effort to distract him. And he lets her, trying his best to let her know he appreciates all she is doing. He is careful not to let his fear show in front of her, even if he can’t hide from it himself.

He’s astonished to see Father walk into the room at the tail end of breakfast, face grim, looking somehow as if he has aged ten years since Draco saw him last. “Draco,” he says with a nod of hello.

Draco nods back. “Good morning, Father,” he says, though the morning is far from good. But it is easier, on the eve of his demise, to pretend that nothing is wrong.

He escapes the table quickly after that. He has no desire to sit through small talk with Father, even if it means leaving Mother’s side.

Unfortunately, he failed to consider that the alternative leaves him sitting tense in his room, a Potter-shaped emptiness beside him.

It hurts.

It hurts so much that he nearly decides to send Potter an owl after all. He walks halfway to his desk several times and has to talk himself back from it—it’s only when he remembers that seeing him again could only hurt Potter that the desire reluctantly subsides.

When has he grown to care for Potter’s feelings more than his own?

He supposes it has something to do with dying. In less than twenty-four hours, he won’t care about anything anymore, but Potter has to go on, to keep on living in this awful, cruel world.

He’s a fool to assume Potter even cares for him anyway. For all he knows, Potter has dismissed him completely—a lost cause, just someone else he couldn’t save.

He can see it clearly now. The opportunity was too much for Potter to pass up—he’d save his old classmate, the wretched Death Eater, and then his conscience would be clear and he could again leave Draco in the dust, arm outstretched, open-mouthed and miserable.

He has to stop thinking about it. It’s making his heart ache.

With nothing else to do, he crawls into bed, and as he does he hears something rustle in his pocket—he’d cared little enough to put on the trousers he was wearing days prior. Frowning, he reaches in to see what it is and pulls out Potter’s note.

It’s crumpled now, smudged, but he can still make out the last words— _I’ll be there tomorrow. –H_

Fuck.

He wishes it were true, so much it threatens to crush him, but he doesn’t have a tomorrow. He barely has a today.

It’s utterly ridiculous that a little thing such as this should affect him so. But his heart is sore as he curls up in bed, clutching the note and trying to remember how it felt to be in Potter’s arms. At least he knows now, what Potter’s skin feels like. It’s far more than he expected to get.

After some time, he falls asleep again. He wakes up mid-afternoon with Mother sitting next to him, face pensive, stroking his hair. “Draco,” she says, and this time he knows he can’t avoid her questions. He looks up at her and waits. Eventually, she sighs. “Are you going to tell me what is going on between you and Mr. Potter?”

He is silent for a moment. “Nothing,” he says quietly, upon thinking about it. “Nothing is happening.”

He’d made sure of that.

Mother clucks and resumes stroking his hair as he buries his face into his pillow.

“I rather thought you might’ve grown closer,” she murmurs, and he nods, turning his face to the side to breathe—this, he can’t hide. “Did he decide not to come today?”

She has a knack for seeing through the walls he hides behind, for pulling secrets out of him that he’d sworn he would hide.

She is his mother, after all.

He sighs in exasperation. “I sent him away,” he admits plainly, woodenly.

Mother doesn’t seem surprised. “I thought as much.” Silence, for several moments, and then, “But you care for him.”

“Yes,” he says, though even just admitting that is painful.

“So why send him away?”

“I don’t...” He has to pause briefly. “I can’t bear to hurt him any longer.”

“Even if he would like to be here?” Mother asks.

He shudders a sigh. “I doubt that,” he says bitterly. “And anyway... I’ve hurt enough people, haven’t I?”

“Oh, Draco,” she says, a small frown on her mouth. “Everyone on this earth has hurt someone else. Even me. Even Potter. But do you think that means we don’t deserve even a small amount of happiness?”

Draco’s face crumples briefly, and he has to fight hard to keep his tears at bay. It hurts too much to consider that she may, in fact, be right. “It doesn’t matter anyway,” he says, and then the worst of the truths—“He’s not here.”

Mother is silent.

“He’s not... is he?” he asks, looking at her in terror and hope all at once.

Slowly, she smiles a sad smile, and his heart stutters. “In the garden,” she says. “You should go to him. It’s not too late.”

He’s so surprised that for a moment he doesn’t move. Then he scrambles frantically out of bed, heart in his throat. “Thank you, Mother,” he says, and hugs her tightly, breathes in the scent of the same perfume she’s worn since he was young.

“Be happy, my love,” she says, and there are tears in her eyes.

“Okay,” he says, maybe even promises.

Then he runs to the garden.

He’s not fully prepared for this, he thinks, as he reaches the door onto the patio, looking out into the afternoon sun. He doesn’t know what to say to Potter, not after the last conversation they had, not after trying his damned best to push him out—but he steps out into the garden anyway.

There is Potter, sitting up straighter, face breaking into a smile when he sees that it’s Draco.

And there is Potter, who somehow always knows what to say, even when Draco doesn’t have the faintest idea.

“Hi,” Potter says, standing as Draco draws near. “I thought we might go flying?”

It’s then that Draco notices he’s holding a pair of brooms.

Both yearning and disappointment assault him all at once. “I can’t,” he says. “I can’t fly.” The block on his magic doesn’t allow it.

Potter looks suddenly nervous. “I know you said not to keep trying to help you,” he says then, and Draco immediately feels wary. “And I didn’t. Mostly. But...” He steps closer, holding something out—a thin metal band. He reaches and takes Draco’s hand and, at Draco’s nod, he snaps it onto his wrist. “But I wanted to at least give you this. It’s keyed to me, so you have to stay within a certain range—”

“Potter,” Draco stops him, “What _is_ it?”

Slowly, Potter smiles. “I just thought it might be nice for you to have your magic back.”

Oh. Holy shit—

Draco stares at him. Then he steps forward and hugs him harder than he’s ever hugged anyone. “Thank you,” he says, pressing the words into Potter’s shoulder, “ _Thank you_.”

“It’s what I would’ve wanted, if it were me,” Potter whispers, a mere breath in Draco’s ear, holding him just as closely. “Sorry I couldn’t do more.”

Draco’s throat goes tight. “Sentimental prat,” he mutters, trying to deflect the sudden sadness that wants to swallow him whole.

Potter laughs, and thankfully Draco can breathe again. Then they pull apart, and Potter reaches his hand into his pocket, retrieving something golden. “Race you to the Snitch?”

Draco’s heart thrums in excitement, and he can’t stop himself from grinning at Potter, giddy with excitement. He hasn’t been on a broom since Voldemort took the Manor. “Yes,” he says, skin tingling with energy as Potter hands him a broom, “Merlin, yes.”

They take off. The wind whips in his face and he flies circles around Potter, whooping, not even caring how he might look or sound. Potter matches him, laughing, zipping along, always nearby, and for a moment they forget even about the Snitch as they fly around the grounds together.

Then he catches sight of it, glinting off to the side of the yard. Potter hasn’t seemed to spot it yet, so he slowly drifts in that direction as they soar and dive—and then Potter _does_ spot it so Draco has to make a break for it.

He shoots forward and then turns sharply down, hurtling toward the ground, and for the slightest moment he considers just letting himself crash.

But he dismisses it. He has a Snitch to catch.

He’s neck and neck with Potter then, arms stretched out in front of them like so many times before—and for a stomach-swooping second, he thinks that Potter is inching ahead. _No, not this time_ —

He puts on an extra burst of speed, urging his broom forward with what might be one of his last outbursts of magic—and feels the flutter of metallic wings in his hand.

“Take _that_ , Potter!” He shouts, shooting through the air in a victory lap even though Potter doesn’t even seem the slightest bit displeased. “For once in your fucking _life!_ ”

Potter falls in pace with him, laughing, and Draco is all at once struck with how handsome he is, sunlight striking his tan skin, the sparkle in his eyes as he grins at Draco.

Everything else falls away.

Slowly, they circle to the ground, and when their feet touch the grass Draco runs to him with no reservations. He reaches out to touch Potter’s chest, to feel his heartbeat, and Potter doesn’t stop him.

This might just be what happiness feels like, Draco thinks, looking at the spark in Potter’s eyes, feeling almost drunk on it.

“You won,” Potter says, grabbing at his shoulders, sweaty and grinning and bright.

“Yes,” Draco says, “ _Finally_.”

“You deserved it,” Potter responds seriously. He brings his hand up, and then in a move that makes Draco’s heart pound, he carefully runs his knuckles up the line of Draco’s jaw.

“It’s all I ever wanted,” Draco says, his voice coming out breathy, and for a moment he doesn’t know if he’s talking about the Snitch or Potter.

Potter lets out a pleased hum, and when his eyes go half-lidded Draco knows he’s about to kiss him, oh fuck. His entire body flashes warm with the thought, and his breath hitches as Potter leans closer.

“Okay?” Potter asks, words ghosting against his jaw, and when Draco gives a shaky nod, Potter tilts closer and kisses him.

_Oh_.

He hadn’t imagined that it would be so soft, that Potter would slant their mouths together so gently, so carefully. He hadn’t imagined it would wreck him so, to have Potter’s hands at his waist, tugging him closer. He hadn’t imagined that it would be everything he’d wanted and more.

But it is. He is gasping within moments, frantic for more of Potter’s touch, tugging him close and biting at Potter’s lip and shivering when Potter moans in response.

“We’re— _oh_ —we’re on the grounds,” he mumbles as Potter mouths at his jawline.

“Mm. So?” Potter asks, trailing his mouth down to Draco’s neck.

“My—my _parents_ —” And then he remembers, conveniently, that he can now Apparate.

So he does, Side-Alonging them to his bedroom, and now they are completely alone. _Merlin_ , he missed magic, he thinks as he picks up his wand and casts locking and silencing charms at the door. Then he stalks toward Potter, catching him in another kiss, a trembling hand on his chest.

He can’t believe this is happening—to think that he nearly gave it up, for pride or fear of not being wanted.

“How far do you want to...?” Potter pulls back to ask, breathing heavily, fingering the hem of Draco’s shirt.

Draco’s pulse skyrockets. “Anything,” he says, leaning back to let Potter kiss his neck again. “Everything.”

“Okay,” Potter says, slipping his hand up Draco’s shirt, his fingers warm on Draco’s back as he sucks at the space just above Draco’s collarbone.

“Off,” Draco mutters, tugging at his own shirt, and Potter helps him take it off, removing his own as an afterthought. They climb into bed, shucking their trousers as they go, Potter climbing on top of him and pressing his hips down, _oh_ —

“Have you ever?” Draco asks, and it’s not important, not really, but still.

“No,” Potter says, reaching up to move a lock of hair out of Draco’s eyes. “Never.”

Draco flushes warm, and then suddenly guilt strikes him, and he looks away.

Potter frowns, worried. “What?”

“Tomorrow,” Draco says, throat tight.

“Don’t think of it, okay?” Potter says, as if avoiding it will make everything all right.

“But you...”

Potter kisses him. “Don’t think of it,” he repeats. “I’ll be okay.”

Draco has no choice but to believe him.

He lets Potter take him apart with slow tenderness, the kind he’s come to expect from Potter the past few days. Potter figures out exactly what places make Draco jump and moan, what makes his eyes go wide, what makes him shudder with anticipation. He grows hard under Potter’s hands as Potter works his way down his chest; he bites back a sob as Potter pulls down the waistband of his pants and sucks at his hipbone.

Then Potter pulls his pants completely off, and the next moment his mouth is on Draco’s cock.

“Fuck,” Draco swears, then, “ _Fuck_.”

Potter gives him a look that speaks of laughter, sucking him down as far as he can, pulling off to cough slightly but immediately trying again.

“Careful,” Draco mumbles, putting a hand on Potter’s arm—partly out of caution and partly out of need to anchor himself.

Potter nods, mouth slick on Draco’s cock, and then Draco stops thinking so much and just feels.

He makes Potter stop when he starts getting him close, tugging him upward, kissing him and kissing him. “I want—together,” he says, fumbling with Potter’s pants until Potter takes pity on him and pulls them off.

“How?” Potter asks, and Draco bites his lip, grabbing at Potter’s hand and moving it between his own legs.

“If you want,” he says, flushing, because he’s always wondered, and anyway this is the last chance he’ll get to try.

“Fuck, okay,” Potter says, his hands sliding along Draco’s thighs, parting them further, and Draco shivers.

“Can I...” Draco starts.

Potter looks up from where he’d just spelled lube onto his hand. “What?”

“If we’re doing this,” Draco says, feeling himself flush. “Then isn’t it a bit silly, to be using surnames still?”

Potter grins. “Maybe a bit,” he says, nudging at Draco’s legs until he can settle between them.

“So can I...” Draco can’t bring himself to finish, even with the wanting thick in his throat.

“Hm?”

Fuck. He’s going to make him say it. “Is it okay... to call you Harry?”

It’s worth it, for the way Potter’s eyes go all soft. “Yeah,” he says, smiling as if Draco’s just given him some sort of gift.

“Okay,” Draco says, heart fluttering.

“Draco,” Harry says, as if he’s just trying it out, and Draco can’t keep the smile from his own face even as he feels Harry’s palms spreading him open.

“I— _Harry_ ,” Draco gasps, because Harry has just slipped a fingertip inside him.

“Too much?” Harry asks, and Draco shakes his head.

“No,” he says, spreading his legs wider, open completely to him. “More.”

“Okay,” Harry says, and presses the rest of his finger in until his knuckles brush Draco’s skin. “All right?”

“Mmph,” Draco says, his face going pinched as he adjusts. “Y-yes. That’s. That’s fine.”

“You sure?” Harry asks, and when Draco nods he continues to open him up, his fingers thick inside Draco as he slowly adds them. Yet still, Draco thinks of _more_ and groans.

“I think,” he says, panting, “I think you can—I want—”

“Merlin, okay,” Harry says, pulling his hand away and spelling it clean. Then he climbs over Draco and kisses him once more, hungrily, as if he could never get enough.

He takes a moment to position himself, gaze fierce on Draco’s face, and Draco wants and wants and wants—and then Harry pushes in slowly, filling him, groaning, and Draco wouldn’t give up this moment for anything.

“Fuck,” he whispers, reaching down to grip at Harry’s hips.

“Is it okay?” Harry asks, breathing fast already.

Draco nods quickly. “More than.”

“Good,” Harry says, smiling, and then he’s pulling back and pressing into Draco so slowly he could cry, drawing the moment out, making it so perfect he can’t stand it.

“Please,” he whispers, urging Harry’s hips faster, and Harry obliges, jaw going slack as he grows closer. Draco takes himself in hand, matching Harry’s pace as best he can, reveling in the feeling of Harry inside him.

Harry comes first, groaning, pressing his lips to Draco’s mouth, his jaw, his cheek. But he doesn’t even pause after, pulling out and sliding down Draco’s body to suck him down again, making him cry out—“ _Fuck_ , Harry.”

It’s not long before Draco follows, his orgasm crashing over him, spilling into Harry’s mouth as he shudders and groans—Harry, Harry, _Harry_.

“Merlin,” he says, panting a moment later. “That was—that was...”

“I know,” Harry says, his eyes wide and careful as he crawls up and kisses his shoulder.

“Harry?” Draco asks, as Harry curls around him.

“Hmm?”

Draco looks at him, at the green of his eyes, and feels himself flush with warmth. “Thank you,” he says.

Harry looks contemplative, pressing a kiss to Draco’s temple. “You don’t have to thank me,” he says, taking his hand, twining his fingers with Draco’s. “I wanted to.”

“Oh,” Draco says, feeling surprised and embarrassed and so happy that he could almost cry. He pulls Harry close and kisses him, and for this one moment, he holds on as tightly as he can.

This is it—his small amount of happiness. It’s his and his alone, and they cannot take it from him.

xXx

They eat dinner in Draco’s room, and then they have sex again, slow, tender touches that last long into the night. Later they do sleep, but not much. Draco doesn’t want to waste precious minutes, and Harry doesn’t complain about waking up every now and then to Draco’s lips on his.

As dawn approaches, Harry mumbles something about showering, and Draco nods and leads Harry to the bathroom attached to his room. They step into the warm spray and hold each other close in between washing and oh, oh.

He’d have fallen in love, Draco thinks as they towel off. With just a little more time, he’d have fallen in love.

They get dressed. Draco lends Harry clothes. He can keep them, he says—after all, Draco won’t need them any longer—and then Harry pushes him up against the doorframe and kisses him long and slow.

When Harry pulls away, there are tears in his eyes, and Draco’s throat burns. “Please,” Draco says, trying to wipe them away, but there are too many. “Not on my account.”

“I can’t help it,” Harry says, hugging him, pressing his face into Draco’s shoulder. “I’m going to miss you.”

“Don’t forget that we hated each other for half of our lives,” Draco says, and Harry lets out a watery laugh.

“We did, yeah,” he concedes. “But I think I still would’ve been sad.”

Draco doesn’t believe him. “You’re just saying that.”

“Really. You were still important to me, and I... and I—” He cuts off, shaking his head.

“Stop it,” Draco grumbles, feeling his own eyes grow wet, and Harry laughs again.

“Anyway, how could I forget?” he says, grinning through his tears, putting a hand to Draco’s cheek. “You were a right arse.”

“So were you,” Draco retorts, smiling despite himself.

“S’pose you’re right,” Harry says, taking a shaky breath. Then the smile slowly drops from his face. “It’s not fair,” he says quietly. “It’s not fair that we only got to know each other after—this.”

“I know,” Draco says, and there are tears streaming down his cheeks. “But,” he continues, scrubbing at his eyes, thinking of Mother’s words. “Isn’t i-it... Don’t you think it’s better to have had this than to not?”

Harry lets out a sob. Then he nods. “Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

They hold each other, and time ticks on, without regard to the two of them standing trembling before the dawn. In a few short hours, Draco will—

Draco will—

Merlin.

Fear is starting to stir in Draco’s stomach. He’s scared. He’s so scared.

"They say you died in the battle," he says, his words muffled in Harry’s shoulder—it’s one thing they never discussed. "That you died and came back. Is it true?"

Harry hesitates, but then Draco can feel him nod. “Yeah. I did.”

Draco bites his lip. "Does it hurt?" he whispers, and Harry holds him tighter and shakes his head.

"No. It doesn't."

“Okay,” Draco says, and then he shudders a breath. “You don’t have to c-come with me,” he tells him then, even though he’s terrified of doing this alone.

“I’m coming with you,” Harry says firmly. “I want to be with you until—until...” He’s shaking. “Until the e-end.”

Shuddering a sob, Draco leans into him. “ _Thank you_.”

Harry wraps his arms around him, and they stand there at the door, tears leaking onto damp shoulders for what feels like an eternity.

Then at last, they break apart.

Harry gives him a sad smile and puts a hand to Draco’s heart, still alive and beating for just a bit longer—a shared moment, a shared look; one last small amount of happiness.

It’s the morning of his death, and together, they turn and face the sunrise.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading <3
> 
> hmu on [tumblr](https://alpha-exodus.tumblr.com/) if you wanna chat about angst stuff!


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